Synthetica (3 page)

Groups of students
were converging at the entrance as everyone rushed to sign in before
their appointments were due. The whole quad was alive with the
morning light; the trees waved softly in the cool breeze, and the
sunlight ignited the vibrant colours shimmering off people's hair
and clothes. There was every colour imaginable; from blonde, red and
brown, to mint green, sleek silver, magenta and midnight blue –
and that was just the hair.

Anais and Dalla
sprinted across the quad, arriving at the glass doors just as the
gentle tune of the bell rang out, signalling the hour. Anais stepped
into one of the full body scanners that lined the inside of the
hall. She touched her fingertip to the small white pad in front of
her, while a beam of blue light scanned her left eye. She also knew,
though she couldn't see or feel it, that the ID chip behind her ear
was being read by another scanner. A green light flashed and Anais
stepped through the security booth, allowing the person behind her
to take her place. Dalla appeared next to her. All around them,
students from their year group were sitting or standing in groups,
the air full of nervous chatter and laughter as they waited to be
called. The Academy was the only school in the whole city; in Anais'
class alone there were sixty students, Dalla's had more than eighty.

Dalla pulled Anais
off to a space at the side of the white tiled reception area.

"God, look at
half these people. They look as though they haven't bought any new
clothes since last year," Dalla gave a nervous little laugh and
pulled out her compact again, checking her hair.

"Relax, Dal,"
Anais said, even though now that she was here, surrounded by other
students, the nervous energy was beginning to get to her too.
Perhaps Dalla had been right to be so worried about their career's
advice. It had only just occurred to Anais that every person in the
room was a potential candidate for the job that she wanted. It was a
sobering thought. She suddenly wished she'd paid more attention in
school. But it was too late now - she'd just have to hope for the
best. Surreptitiously, she reached up and tried to pat her own pink
curls into submission, wincing as she pulled her fingers through the
tangles.

She heard a
ping
and an image bearing the city's crest of arms flashed up on her
RetCom. She opened it and it simply read:

MISS
ANAIS FINCH

ID:
901219

REPORT
TO ROOM 316

She swallowed hard,
her mouth suddenly dry.

"I've been called
up," she said to Dalla, trying not to let her nervousness show
through her voice. Dalla reached out and gave her a quick hug.

"Good luck, babe.
You'll do fine," she said, as Anais pulled away.

"Meet you in the
quad after?" Anais asked and Dalla nodded.

Anais turned and
walked away, sidestepping the throngs of people that had now
congregated in the reception area. The softly illuminated signs
hanging down from the ceiling directed her up three flights of
stairs. As she reached the top of the third set of stairs, a set of
double doors slid smoothly back to reveal long, sterile corridor
with soft mood lights glowing in the ceiling. Anais counted down the
numbers as she passed each uniform grey door, before finally
arriving at the one marked 316. She knocked and a woman's voice
trilled, “Come in!”

Cautiously, Anais
opened the door. It was a bright, airy room; there was no computer
desk and two large, cushy purple chairs occupied most of the space.
A green fern waved cheerily from the corner. Morning sunlight
spilled in through the far wall which was made completely of glass;
the view over the square and the fountain was simply spectacular. A
short, rather plump, woman with midnight blue hair, curled closely
to her head and sprinkled with what looked like silver glitter,
stood up from where she was sitting in one of the purple chairs and
bustled over to close the door behind Anais.

“You must be Anais.
My, what a pretty hair colour you have! Is it natural?” she asked
in a high, breathy voice that immediately set Anais' teeth on edge.
Anais nodded, mesmerised by the woman's hair. Was that silvery stuff
actually real, or had she sprayed it on?

“How lovely! If you
could just stand still for a minute -” The woman delicately
brushed Anais' hair forward as she held a small wireless scanner up
to the ID chip implanted behind Anais' right ear. Anais thought she
imagined a tiny tingling sensation as the scanner's invisible beam
passed over her chip.

“Lovely. I'm Mrs
Persimmon and I'll be advising you today,” the woman trilled, as
she went to sit back down, gesturing for Anais to join her. Anais
sat down in the chair opposite, still taking in her surroundings.
Mrs Persimmon held out her left arm, and began calling up Anais'
files that she'd just received from Anais' ID chip, onto the small
silver wrist screen she wore. She nodded very so often, muttering as
she glanced through the information. Finally, she looked up, her
moss green eyes boring into Anais'. Anais didn't fail to notice the
tiny flick of Mrs Persimmon's gaze, as she took in what Anais was
wearing. Perhaps it was just Anais' imagination but she could've
sworn she saw the other woman's lip curl every so slightly.

“So,” Mrs
Persimmon simpered, smiling brightly. “Miss Finch, I see that
you've applied to the Institute of Architecture, is that correct?”

Anais nodded, her
heart beginning to thump in her chest.

“And may I ask what
made you want to apply to be an architect?” There was something in
her tone that Anais didn't like – there was just a hint of
derision in there which Anais thought was a little strange.

“Well, I've always
liked drawing,” Anais started. “I'm not very good with computers
so -”

“So you thought
you'd make a career out of your hobby, not out of your academic
strengths?”

Anais blinked, lost
for an answer, while Mrs Persimmon continued to smile blandly at
her. She struggled for a few seconds, trying to think of something
to say that wasn't sarcastic, but when nothing came, she remained
silent.

“Well, I do have
some rather good news for you, Miss Finch” Mrs Persimmon
continued, leaning forward in her seat. Despite herself, Anais
couldn't help leaning forward too. This was it. This was the moment
that she'd find out what vocation she was most suited for. She held
her breath as Mrs Persimmon glanced back down at her holographic
screen.

“We've received your
exam results and have taken all three of your career choices into
consideration. And I'm very pleased to tell you Miss Finch that -”

Anais looked at her
eagerly, waiting with bated breath.

“ - we've enrolled
you in a training course at the picochip factory!”

It took a minute for
Mrs Persimmon's words to sink in. Mrs Persimmon beamed at Anais, who
could only sit there in shock.

“I'm sorry,” she
finally managed to get out. “What did you say?”

“The picochip
factory. You've been assigned to work at the picochip factory,”
Mrs Persimmon pronounced the last three words slowly and clearly, as
though Anais was some kind of imbecile. Anais could only stare at
her, horror beginning to rise in her chest, as Mrs Persimmon began
talking about her working hours and her wage.

“ - of course, that
is subject to your performance level, and will reviewed once every
five years -”

Anais had stopped
listening. All she could think about was the very last words she had
wanted to hear – the picochip factory. The place where her parents
worked themselves to the bone every day for barely any money; the
hot, stuffy factory floor; the stifling air that choked your lungs
and made your eyes and skin dry and itchy, the acrid smell of hot
metal. This was to be her life for the next fifty years until she
could retire or, as was much more likely, she died from exposure to
the fumes that the factory produced. She wasn't stupid – she knew
why her parents had never moved from their own jobs at the factory.
Those who were deemed unworthy enough to start at the bottom, stayed
at the bottom. There was no hope of getting a new job, no hope of
getting out. The thought made her want to scream in Mrs Persimmon's
stupid, flabby face.

It took a good few
moments for Anais to realise that Mrs Persimmon had fallen silent,
and was now looking at her expectantly.

“What?” Anais
said.

“I said, you'll
start work on Monday and you'll have every Saturday off. Are you
quite sure you're alright dear?” Mrs Persimmon was looking rather
perplexed, as though she couldn't understand why Anais wasn't
jumping for joy at her announcement. “Do you have any questions at
all?”

“Yes,” Anais said,
unable to keep the anger out of her voice. “I have a question. Why
bother going through the motions of asking us to choose what we'd
like to be, if you're just going to disregard everything we say? I
didn't even list the factory as an option.”

Mrs Persimmon shook
her head in derision and Anais immediately knew the answer to her
earlier thought – the silver flakes were actually a part of Mrs
Persimmon' hair.

“Miss Finch, surely
you must've realise that someone of your -”

“What?' Anais asked,
rather aggressively. “Someone of my what?”

Mrs Persimmon gave a
small, patronising smile.

“Someone of your
social position,” she continued in her sweet voice. “Surely you
understand that as a daughter of -” here, she glanced briefly back
down at Anais' file that was still being beamed into the air. “a
picochip factory worker - no excuse me -
two
picochip factory
workers, it just wouldn't be feasible for you to train as an
architect. There's the cost of training for one. And that's not to
mention that your school grades simply aren't, well, adequate, for
such a job.” She shrugged as though there was nothing she could do
and gave Anais a pitying smile. Anais stared at her in disbelief.
Thanks for breaking it to me gently, you old witch
, she
thought bitterly.

“I do wish things
could be different, dear,” Mrs Persimmon continued in what was
clearly supposed to be an understanding tone. “But the fact is,
unless you're a top student, the Institute of Architecture simply
won't accept you. Whereas you have perfectly good grades to be
accepted at the factory.”

She shrugged again as
though that was the end of the matter.

“Thanks for your
advice,” Anais said through clenched teeth. “And what if I don't
want to work at the factory? What about my second and third
choices?”

Mrs Persimmon made a
fluttering gesture with her hands, her blue curls bobbing in time
with her head. Her eyes flicked down to the holographic screen where
Anais could see a tiny photo of herself floating in the air.

“Well, as I'm sure
you're aware, the graphic design field is highly competitive. And
all the available teaching positions filled up months ago. If it's
any consolation, dear, teaching will be a redundant career in a few
years anyway, once the SLPs take off! So really, you're in the best
position with a secure career at the picochip factory.”

She looked up
expectantly, as though expecting Anais to fall to her knees in
gratitude. Anais gave her a stony look.

“The picochip
factory,” she repeated tonelessly. Mrs Persimmon nodded
enthusiastically.

“That's right, dear.
Now, I'll message you all the details, just in case there's anything
else you'd like to know” she punched a few keys on her wrist
screen with a flourish and almost immediately, an icon appeared in
the top right of Anais' vision, informing her that she had a new
message. She blinked and deleted it without bothering to open it.

“Oh goodness, I
didn't realise the time,” Mrs Persimmon gave another tinkling
laugh and Anais had to remind herself that the punishment for
punching someone was wearing an electronic tag for six months.
“Well, let's leave it there then shall we, Miss Finch? You don't
have to do anything else. And may I just say, congratulations! I
know you'll just love working in your new career!”

Mrs Persimmon stood up
and Anais rose slowly after her. Mrs Persimmon bustled to the door
and opened it, looking at Anais expectantly. Anais stayed where she
was.

“So that's it then?
I don't get to ask any more questions?” She struggled to keep the
anger out of her voice. Mrs Persimmon' perfect smile wavered. “I
just have to accept my job and that's that?”

“Well,” she
glanced out of the door as though wanting someone to walk by and
rescue her. “Of course you don't have to follow my
recommendations, but as we do go through all the trouble, not to
mention the expense, of signing you up for training and making sure
you have a guaranteed job for life, it would be a little silly to
throw all that effort away. Should you chose to reject your given
career, I do think you'll find it very hard to get another position,
especially this late on in the year. And as your chosen job is based
on your personal data, it follows naturally that you should pursue
the career to which the information finds you most suitable, does it
not?”

Her hundred-watt smile
returned, and Anais gave up. She stalked past Mrs Persimmon,
ignoring her as best as she could. But she couldn't resist a parting
remark.

“By the way,” she
said turning around, just as Mrs Persimmon was closing the door. “Is
your
hair natural?”

Mrs Persimmon looked
surprised.

“Why, yes it is,”
she said looking rather pleased as she patted her stiff curls. “My
father chose it.”

Anais gave her best
impression of the patronising smile Mrs Persimmon had treated her
to.

“Pity,” she said
sweetly. “But there's always a way to fix it. I'll message you the
details.”